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(^licL-rgaret Wolf Hunger ford 





Class _ 

Book . H 3 \ 

2. 

Copyright N ° .. 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








price, 10 cen;ts. 







VOL. 2. 


APRIL, 1887. 


No. 4. 


- £4 


The Criterion Library is issued Monthly, "* J 
Subscription price, 50 cts. per year. 


J % 


That Last Rehearsal 


By the “DUCHESS.” 

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NEW YORK: 

Gazlay Brothers, 157 and 159 William Street, 
1887. 

Copyrighted 1887, by Gazlay Brothers. 


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That 


Last Rehearsal.” 

BY THE “ DUCHESS.” 


He is standing with his back to the fire, his eyes bent upon 
the ground, lost in thought. So, evidently, are all the little dogs 
deep in contemplation, ns they lie all round him, with their 
chilly noses turned toward the cozy fire, that laughs and crackles 
and leaps in mad enjoyment, although May is far advanced. 
At his feet the three rough terriers — Rum, Charlie, and Gip — 
snore luxuriously; on his right the setter pup blinks softly, on 
his left the fox-terrier, handsome Cheekie, dozes; while in the 
center lies Crinkle, the small toy, wide awake and evidently 
eager to challenge the world to single combat. This latter, 
when dispassionately considered, is but a melancholy creature, 
all legs, and no body to signify beyond an aspiring tail and two 
dejected ears. A forlorn thing, fit only for the tomb, but beloved 
of its master; so it lives, and its legs grow, and it prospers. 

The clock ticks, the moments fly, the gilt hands point to half- 
past three. Just now a soft, distinct chime proclaims the hour, 
and Mr. Dynecourt, rousing himself, wonders vaguely what on 
earth he shall do. This thought is so perplexing that involun- 
tarily he tightens his clasp upon the letter he holds in his left 
hand, and brings his foot down with some emphasis upon the 
hearth-rug. Probably he meant no offense, but all the little 
dogs resent the hurried movement, and, as though pulled by a 
universal string, rise and gaze reproachfully upon him. Their 
master takes no notice of their indignation, but with moody 
eyes seeks, as it were, to look into futurity. 

At this moment the door opens, and a pretty creature dressed 
in deep mourning enters the room. Descriptions, like compari- 
sons. are odious; therefore I shall not describe my heroine, but 
will ask you to picture her to yourself as the very sweetest thing 
in all the world. Surely beauty lies not in form or feature but 
in expression; and she is tender, riante, provoking, graciease — 
all just as it suits her. 

Mr. Dynecourt is tw T enty-six, and very much in love. Georgie 
Hamilton is seventeen, and very much in love too. But he is in 
love with her, and she is only in love with life and the freshness 
and fairness of this pleasant world. 

As she enters now and advances up the long room, she smiles 
brightly. “ I have news for you,” she says, with large, pleased, 
eager eyes. “ Do you know, Polly has five of the loveliest pups 
imaginable — regular darlings! All a deep brown, and without a 
single spot.” 



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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


3 


“ Has she?” — absently. 

“‘Has she?’ How very enthusiastic! What’s the matter, 
Davy? Something is wrong, I know, and I’m sure it is in that 
letter. How I do hate letters!” 

“ Yes. it is in the letter,” returns he uncomfortably, and some- 
what forlornly. “ It is from your uncle, John Greaves, asking 
you — to go and live with them.” 

“I sha’n’t go,” says Miss Georgie, promptly. “Not likely. 
May I ask what put such a festive notion in his head ? Am I not 
very well as I am ?” 

•That's just it,” — crumpling the unlucky letter nervously, 
while staring with fixed determination at Rum’s silver head. 
“ Your uncle doesn’t think so. In fact, he thinks you shouldn’t 
— live here any longer.” 

“ Not live here? in my home ? And why !” 

He is silent. He draws himself up with a quick movement, 
and opens his lips as though to speak, but checks himself reso- 
lutely, and as a further preventive to speech brings his teeth 
down sharply upon the end of his blonde mustache. 

“ 1 certainly sha’n*t go to Aunt Maud's,” goes on Georgie, with 
decision; “ nothing shall induce me. I once spent a month 
there, and I’m not going to try it again. I don’t fancy having 
Julia’s perfections retailed to me half a dozen times a day, and 
I won’t be treated as a baby when I am seventeen. I can’t bear 
Aunt Maud. Do let me stay on here, Davy; what does it matter 
what any one may say ?” 

“You could oniy stay on here in one character.” replies he, 
quietly, though he pales a little and regards her searchingly. 

“ And that is ” 

“ As my wife.” 

“Well, then, I will be your wife,” decides Miss Hamilton, 
with flattering haste, though perhaps there is something not alto- 
gether satisfactory in the air of self-sacrifice that accompanies 
the little speech. Then she stops short, and laughs rather awk- 
wardly. “ I forgot,” she says, looking down and trifling with 
her white fingers. “ Pardon me; 1 forgot you might not view 
the idea in quite such a cheerful light as I do.” 

“ You must be blind,” he says, coming forward and speaking 
quickly, “if you can have any doubt on that subject. I love 
you, Georgie; surely you know that. But I know you do not 
love me in — in thatway; and I would not hurry or tempt you 
into a marriage that later on you might bitterly repent.” 

‘ * I shouldn’t ” — calmly; “ I am sure of it. Why do you always 
imagine unpleasant things?” 

“ If I could be quite sure you knew your own mind— that you 
really wished to marry me,” says he, anxiously, some degree of 
hope rising in his mind as he listens to the seeming earnestness 
of her words. 

“You maybe quite sure,” returns she, reassuringly. “I 
would no anything to escape Aunt Maud.” 

He drops her hand abruptly and walks back to his old posi- 
tion on the hearth-rug. “ Nor it is out of the question,” he says. 


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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


5 


“ You do not care for me, and I would not do you such an in- 
jury as to marry you under the circumstances.” 

“ Then don't!" she says petulantly, and, turning to the win- 
dow, lets her eyes wander tenderly, lingeringly, over the lovely 
parks and uplands that seem to swell and glow beneath her 
gaze. 

At this point she lets one hand smite the palm of the other 
sharply, and, turning with a little passionate gesture from the 
window, faces him. “ What am I to do?” she says. “ At least 
help me to think, as by your decree I must leave my— home.” 

Her eyes fill; her lips tremble slightly; her hands fall together 
with an involuntary movement and clasp each other closely. 
“ I will not go to my aunt’s,” she says, quickly. “ I have money; 
why should I not take a cottage — the Elms, for instance— and 
live by myself, or with some nice old lady ? — though, as a rule, 
I hate old ladies.” 

“That is a good thought,” says Dynecourt, eagerly, some 
light coming back again into his eyes. (If this can be accom- 
plished, she will at least be always near him; that is, until 

Here the glad light fades again suddenly, and Melancholy once 
more marks him for her own.) “ It can be managed, I dare say, 
if your uncle gives consent. I know an old lady, a friend of my 
aunt’s, who would, I am sure, be glad to come to you. Yes, it 
might be arranged, and — the Elms would exactly suit you.” 

“ As well as any other place” — with a shrug of her pretty 
shoulders. “ You have refused to marry me, and you have 
turned me out of doors; therefore, I must needs be content with 
the lesser goods the gods provide.” 

“ Georgie,” exclaims he, angrily, keen reproach and pain in 
his tone, “ how dare you speak to me like that? How have I 
deserved it at your hands? It is unlike you to be unjust.” He 
is gazing down with tender severity upon her willful, provoking 
face; and at last, when she can endure the intensity of his re- 
gard no longer, she raises her head; and, meeting his eyes, lets 
her mouth relax into a soft, irresistible smile. But he is too 
hurt and sad at heart to return the smile, and presently she be- 
comes aware that his eyes are full of tears. 

“ I have vexed you,’’ she says, remorsefully, slipping her 
slender fingers into his; “ forgive me* I am bad to you always. 
But one cannot be amiable forever, and just now I am angry 
with Mrs. Grundy, because she will not let me be happy in my 
own way; and I think I am a little angry with you, too. It 
isn’t the pleasantest thing in the world to propose to some one 
and be ignominiously rejected. Now, is it ?” 

‘ ‘ My darling, how can I act differently ? You are only a child : 
you do not know your own mind yet. A time might come 

when No, it would be madness toward both of us to marry 

you without being fully assured of your love.” 

“ Would it ? And yet I know I like you better than anybody 
I ever met,” persists she, a little wistfully. 

“ That is saying nothing, you know so few. But listen, 
Georgie. Let a year go by; at the end of twelve months, if you 
still wish to marry me, I shall say to myself, ‘ She loves me!’ If 


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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


7 


not, why, then ” — sadly — “ I shall know how wise I was to-day. 
In the meantime, promise me one thing,” says Dynecourt, ear- 
nestly, closing his hand tighter upon hers, “ that whenever you 
feel yourself growing — interested — in any one, you will tell me 
of it instantly .” 

“ I promise,” — with faint surprise in look and tone. 

“You will not hide it until it is too late ?” 

“ Certainly not. Of course ’’—with a little mocking smile that 
irradiates her whole face— “ you are alluding to George Blount, 
or perhaps to Captain Stannus, who, I hear, is expected at the 
Grange next month.” 

“ I may be,” replies he, quietly, though some slight discom- 
posure betrays itself in his manner as she mentions the last 
name. “ I have your promise, however, have I not? — that you 
will give me timely warning of the very first sign of tenderness 
you feel.” 

“I promise faithfully,” returns she, laughingly, “though I 
know you are imagining what will never come to pass.” 

A fortnight has come and gone. Uncle John has given in; 
so has Aunt Maud with startling amiability. It is a settled thing 
that for the future Miss Hamilton is to be mistress of her own 
actions and the Elms (a picturesque cottage, without an elm 
within a mile of it), while the Park loses its sweetest inmate, and 
Dynecourt grows to almost detest the beautiful place that now, 
in Georgie’s absence, seems bereft of its chief charm. 

Gradually the long drawing-rooms assume the unlovely look 
of all rooms in which no humanity lingers; the dining-room 
grows gaunt, the galleries ghostly. Only the library retains in 
part its old appearance, as here its master sits at night, brood- 
ing sadly over her he loves. 

As for Georgie, she pines persistently for her lovely Park, and 
regrets every hour she lives her enforced exile from it. Once, 
about three weeks after her change of residence, loitering among 
the flowers alone with Davy (having eluded Mrs. Wright’s vigi- 
lance), she turns to him and says suddenly, with some childish 
bitterness and envy: 

“Well, and are you happy, now you have the Park all to 
yourself ?” 

“Does that speech deserve an answer?” — reproachfully. 
“ Take it, however. I am as miserable as I well can be. Every 
room and hall and corridor reminds me ceaselessly of— what I 
sorely miss each hour of the day.” 

“ I am glad of it ’’—wickedly. “ The more wretched you are 
the more I shall enjoy it. I can never forgive you for having 
refused me. Such an indignity! Even still my heart beats when 
I think of it.” 

“You jest about what is cruel earnest to me.” 

“What a tone!” — laughing. “You remind me of the frogs 
and those unpleasant boys. And yet surely 1 have stated only 
bare facts, you did refuse me.” 

“ Ask me again when you can tell me honestly you love 
me.” 

“ What if I told you so now ?” 






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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


9 


“ I shouldn’t believe you.” 

“ No ? Then what is love ?” demands she, standing still before 
him in the center of the path, framed in by glowing, fragrant 
roses, and gazing with calm inquiry, though somewhat miith- 
fully, into his gray eyes. “ I mean, how does one feel when one 
is in love ?” 

“ You confess your ignorance?” asks he, with a slight smile 
that is full of dejection and regret. “ Well, let me try to en- 
lighten it. First, when one loves, one has a passionate longing 
to be near the beloved — a sense of desolation when apart from 
her.” 

“ So f** says Georgie, raising her brows slightly. ‘ Now, 
don’t you think— please do not believe me unsympathetic— but 
doesn’t it occur to you that — that — it might grow slightly mo- 
notonous ?” 

“No, it does wof,” emphatically. “To you, of course, it 
might.” 

“ Ah!” murmurs Georgie, gazing with expressive regret at 
her delicate, filbert-shaped nails. 

“ In the second place,” goes on Mr. Dynecourt, “ one is always 
absurdly jealous.” 

“Is one? But, my c?eotr Davy, how very dreadful! Do you 
not think jealousy a rather vulgar sentiment ?” 

“ It may be, but it is at the same time a thoroughly natural 
and utterly unconquerable sentiment.” 

“I’m absolutely certain I couldn’t be made jealous,” says 
Georgie, with uplifted chin. “I flatter myself I am above all 
that. It is low and commonplace.” 

“ Perhaps you look upon love itself in the same light,” says he, 
a little bitterly. “ Remember, it too is commonplace!” 

“ No, no. I am not so sure of that,” returns she, reflectively. 
“ Well, go on. Besides monotony and jealousy is there any- 
thing else ?” 

“As I regard it, yes. I think,” says this old-fashioned young 
man, in a low tone that he firmly believes befits the occasion — 
“ I think one would feel if one's dearest died that one must die 
too.” 

“ Well, now,” says Georgie, in a clear, healthy, business-like 
tone. “I don’t believe a word of that. It is ridiculous: it is 
too much.” 

“ Didn't I say so? I told you beforehand you knew nothing 
about it,” says he, hastily, a little indignation, a little disgust, 
and a good deal of pain mixed together in his voice. “ I do not 
expect you to agree with me, because you have never loved.” 

“I dare say you think you know best,” says Miss Georgie, 
with some just irritation, “ but I ask you to look round at those 
among our friends who have loved, and see if you speak sen- 
sibly. There was Maud Eldon, for instance: when ne\ys came 
that Frank had been shot in that stupid Asliantee affair, did she 
droop and die? And yet they were quite devoted: we all knew 
that. And then there was Jane Newcome: did she find an early 
grave because poor George succumbed to that fever ? She 
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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


11 


she has done of late. Then remember Mrs. Hartley’s case: you 
know how awfully fond of each other she and Arthur were, and 
yet when he was brought home on a door to her from the hunt- 
ing-field, did she die? No: she only got married again. I must 
repeat it, Davy: I don’t believe a word of it.” 

“ Of course it isn’t in one’s power to die,” says Davy, apolo- 
getically, feeling somewhat crushed by this heavy weight of 
evidence, “ but at least one would feel anxious to die. It would 
seem the hardest part of one's misery that perhaps one couldn’t. 
Now, I ask you, Georgie” — in a challenging tone — “do you 
think you would feel anxious to die if I died ?” 

“ How can I say ?” — perplexed, letting her rounded cheek sink 
into her palm. Then, suddenly, “ How can 1 think about it at 
all, when you are alive and well, and so very near to me ?” she 
says, sweetly, moving a degree closer to him and turning upon 
him the softest, tenderest smile imaginable. 

But this smile, that might reasonably be believed capable of 
melting an iceberg, fails in its purpose. Mr. Dynecourt distinctly 
declines to be melted, and, fearing to meet her eyes, looks reso- 
lutely over her head toward the distant hills beyond, behind 
which the golden sun is sinking slowly, slowly, emitting in his 
dying agonies a yellow haze that covers all the land. 

Presently, however, his meditations are brought to an igno- 
minious close. Georgie, springing to her feet, seizes him eagerly 
by the arm, and by an animated glance brings him to his feet. 
“ Let us run,” she says, with the utmost bonhomie , as though 
their late passage-at-arms had never occurred. “ 1 see Mrs. 
Wright looming in the dim vista of the future, and her coming 
means platitudes, mild expostulations, and shawls. Let us es- 
cape while we may.” 

With this she turns the corner hastily, and, he following as in 
duty bound, they presently find themselves in an obscure arbor, 
moldy and earwiggy, but secure. 

Georgie, seating herself at the rustic table, lets her chin fall 
into her hands and silently contemplates her companion, who is 
looking his severest and is crushing without remorse the “ starry 
jasmine ” that climbs the arbor’s sides as he leans against it. 

“ How quiet you are!” she says, at length, with a slightly pro- 
voking smile, being in a teasing humor. “Is it your temper or 
your toothachd ? Speak to me, Davy.” 

“I am afraid you don’t like Mrs. Wright,” he says, “and it 
must be unpleasant for you, living with her, and that ” 

“ Not in the least; I like her very much, but I don’t love her, 
that is all. She is tiresome, poor soul! and will think I have a 
delicate chest.” 

“ She is a very good woman.” 

“ That is just it ’’—demurely. 

“ What is?” 

“ Her being so good. She is too good; that is her great fault. 
She is the most perfect woman I ever met, and I don’t like per 
feet people; they disagree with me. Oh, that one could find a 
flaw somewhere! But one looks for it in vain. There are no 


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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 13 

exceptions to her rules, and she is never wrong. Good people 
are very disagreeable: I prefer the other sort myself.” 

“You make me wish myself of the other sort,” says he, 
smiling. 

“Don’t wish yourself different, you are the happy medium. 
But Captain Stannus, he is quite of the other sort.” 

“ You. have met him?” — turning with a palpable start to ex- 
amine her features. “ When ? where ?” 

“ Last night, at the Grange; you know he was expected there ” 
— coloring distinctly, though faintly. “ I dined there; did I not 
tell you ! I dine there so often it scarcely impresses me. Mrs. 
Blount came herself at six o’clock, and made me walk back 
with her, as she said she was most anxious I should meet her 
brother.” 

“ No doubt.” 

“ He is very handsome, and was very agreeable and— attentive 
and pleasant.” 

“Was he?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Go on, Georgie; you have something more to tell me.” He 
has turned his face from hers, and is unconsciously reducing to 
ruin a branch of the jasmine that has foolishly wandered within 
his grasp. 

“Not much. Only once, you know, you made me promise if 
I ever felt interested (was not that the word ?) in any one I was 
to let you know directly. You remember.” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ Well ” — with a slightly embarrassed laugh, and a blush that 
deepens every moment by fine degrees upon her pretty cheeks — 
“ I think I rather like this new friend. We had dancing in the 
large hall after dinner, and he danced with me all the evening, 
and said a good many charming things. And he didn’t tell mo 
I was a silly child. And altogether we had a lovely time.” 

She stops with another little laugh at her Americanism, but 
Dvneeourt makes no reply. She cannot see his expression, and, 
as his silence troubles her, she rises, and, coming to his side, slips 
her hand through his arm. “ Have I vexed you ?” she says; “ do 
you really care? Of late I have thought — not. You scold me 
so much, and look so sadly at me sometimes. Perhaps, after 
all ” — with a little sigh — “ I am only a silly child. Mind, I am 
not sure that I feel even the faintest interest in this new-comer; 
only it certainly did occur to me that he was good to talk to, 
and I liked his way of dancing. And you know you made me 
promise faithfully to tell you of the very first sign of ” 

“ I know,” interrupts he impatiently, in a compressed tone, 
taking no notice of the white little hand that is so gently press- 
ing his arm. 

“ To-morrow night,” she goes on, earnestly, “ I shall be dining 
there again, and ” 

‘ ‘ Again ?” 

“ Yes. Are you not to be there? George said he would rk.e 
down this afternoon to ask you; I suppose you missed him.” 

“ It doesn't matter; I sha’n’t go.” 


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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


15 


“ Not when I am going to be of the party!” — reproachfully. 

“ No ” — brutally. 

“ Well, you must please yourself about that, of course” — with 
a flattering sigh. “ But I was going to say to you that when 
to-morrow night is past I shall know more positively whether I 
really like Captain Stannus or not. Come here on Friday and I 
will tell you all about it.” 

Dynecourt smiles in spite of himself. “ And yet you were in- 
dignant a moment since because I said you were a child!” he 
says, half musingly. “ I keep to your bargain. On Friday I 
shall be here to learn my fate.” 

He leaves her presently and goes home full of sad forebodings, 
as miserable as any woman could desire. All the evening (that 
seems so interminable) he fights with his fears, and refuses to 
find comfort in his choicest cigars. Dinner is an abomination, 
bed a mockery. 

Every hour of the succeeding day he torments himself afresh, 
and as twilight falls almost makes up his mind to waive cere- 
mony and, in spite of the refusal sent, dine at the Grange, if 
only to judge with his own jealous eyes what amount of favor 
Stannus is finding in the eyes of his beloved. But pride and 
obstinacy prevail. No, he will not interfere in any way; let her 
give her heart to this stranger if she will; let this fancy, born of 
a few hours, grow and supplant the affection that has lasted for 
years. And so on and on. 

As Friday morning deepens into noon, his mood becomes even 
more depressing. Why fight against fortune? Why seek to 
compel fate ? Why go to the Elms at all, to hear what he already 
knows too well ? Better take the next train to town, or shut 
himself up in his private den, or die first. 

Five minutes after making a solemn choice between these 
three evils he finds himself in the hall, gazing with gentle medi- 
tation into his hat. Whether he has mistaken time and place, 
and is about to say a prayer into it, will never be known, but 
presently he draws himself up, and as though hardly conscious 
of the act, places the hat firmly on his head. After which, still 
with the abstracted look upon his face, he opens the hall door 
and takes the road that leads to the Elms. 

Whilst yet at a distance from that paradise, he sees standing 
at its gate a very gracious figure, evidently on the lookout for 
somebody. Coming nearer he can see it is Miss Georgie herself, 
clad in a marvelous costume and innumerable smiles. 

“ It is all right,” she cries, gayly, at the top of her fresh young 
voice, running to greet him. Then, as they meet, she leaves her 
hand in his as she goes on to tell him her story. “ I don’t care 
in the least for him.” she says; “ he is rather a prig. I found 
out all about it at once. You know you said jealousy was a 
chief ingredient, and last night it so happened that I offended 
his lordship early in the evening so grossly that he declined to 
notice me afterward. He would not even ask me to dance, but 
devoted himself to that pretty Miss Hanley, and — would you 
believe it? — I didn’t mind it in the least; in fact, it amused me. 
So, you see, I don’t care a bit for him.” 


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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 17 

“ Sulky beast!*’ says Mr. Dynecourt, with withering contempt, 
but in the cheeriest of tones. * 

“Yes, isn’t he? As you weren’t there”— with a reproachful 
glance — “ I consoled myself with George Blount, and enjoyed 
myself immensely. Now, aren’t you glad ?” 

This question is asked so naively, and his relief is so great, that 
he bursts out laughing. His companion joins in merrily. 

“ Glad doesn't express it!” exclaims he. “I cannot tell you 
what a miserable time I have put in since last I saw you. My 
darling, how pretty you are looking this morning! And isn’t 
that a very charming dress you are wearing?” 

Naturally this pleases her, and she instantly proceeds to tell 
him all about this desirable gown, where she got it, w r ho made 
it. and the exact amount of t';e bill sent in to her by Elise. 
Whilst imparting all this information to her puzzled hearer, she 
induces him in the most artful manner to tell her three distinct 
times how very becoming it is to her. Feeling at last satisfied 
that he is thoroughly impressed by her very charming appear- 
ance, she thinks fit to change the conversation. 

She is in one of her kindest humors, so that when his visit of 
two short hours lias drawn to a close she makes him a noble of- 
fer of her company as far as the gate. On their way thither she 
says: 

** When next you are asked to the Grange you must come; 
it is a very pleasant house and great fun, and I like to see you 
there. But ” — with a swift glance from under her long lashes — 
“ you mustn’t dance so much with Florence Blount as you did 
the last night we were there together in poor auntie’s time. Do 
you remember?” 

“ Hardly.” 

“ What a politic answer! You know you danced all night with 
her. By the bye ” — with a charming assumption of indifference 
— “does she dance well?” 

“ Very well,” replies he, with all a man’s hopeless stupidity. 

“ Really?” Then after a suspicious pause, “ I shouldn’t have 
thought it. She looks heavy.” 

“She has rather too good a figure to be called ‘heavy,’ I 
think,”— still more stupidly. 

“A charming figure!”— stiffly. “ I like people inclining to- 
ward embonpoint myself; they are much more worthy of admira- 
tion than meager creatures like — like me. for instance. She is 
very handsome too, isn’t she ?” 

“ Yes,”— absently. He is thinking of anything in the world 
but Florence Blount, but how can she know that? 

“ Very handsome?” says she, with uncalled-for energy. “Al- 
together, I think she would make a very suitable wife for 
you.” 

“ Georgie!” rousing himself from his pleasant day-dreams — in 
which his companion cf the moment, bears so large a part— with 
a palpable start. 

“Yes; why not? You think she dances divinely, has the 
loveliest figure you ever saw, and is the handsomest woman in 
the world.” 



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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


19 


“ Did I say all that?” 

“ Every word, and more. So, I see no reason why you should 
not marry her.” 

“ Except the simple one that I love another,” replies he, 
coldly, feeling some anger at her heartless suggestion. 

“ I don’t believe you do,” says she, pettishly, though consider- 
ably mollified. “At least, you never tell me you think we good 
to look at.” 

“ Why should I bore you by telling you over and over again 
what you know so well already?” — impatiently. “Good-bye, 
Georgie: I have evidently tired you out. I must really go.” 

“You are cross,” says Miss Georgie, coaxingly; “but don’t 
go for a little minute, it is so long since I have seen you.” 

“ What a humbug you are!” — smiling. “ As if you could for- 
get that only one day has passed since our last meeting!” 

“ I forget everything when I am with you,” says this coquette, 
archly. Then there is a pause, and then she says, very softly 
and with an air of the utmost importance; “ Davy!” 

“Well?” says Davy, stopping short, and feeling sure some 
dark secret is about to be disclosed. 

,“ I want to ask you a question” — taking hold of a button on 
bis coat and twisting it nervously, to its serious detriment. 

“ Then ask it, darling ” — very anxiously. 

“ Do I or Florence Blount dance best?” 

Mr. Dynecourt, though strongly tempted to give way to mer- 
riment at this solution of her gravity, with a wisdom beyond his 
years, refrains. “ You, decidedly,” he says, with emphasis. 

“You are sure?” 

“Positive.” 

“There is something else. A moment since you said you 
thought her very handsome.” 

“Did I? I don’t believe ” 

“Yes, you did. Now, don’t you think — her nose — a little 
large, eh, Davy?” — with a faint laugh and some embarrassment. 
“ Do say you think her nose the largest you ever saw.” 

“Quite the largest ’’—with comforting conviction; “utterly 
out of all proportion.” 

“ I fully agree with you ’’—with a delicious laugh. “ And her 
figure ? It is very fat, isn’t it ?” 

“ Abominably so.” 

“ And you hate fat women?” 

“ I simply loathe them; I only care for ‘ meager little creat- 
ures ’ like — you.” 

“ Rude boy! But, honestly, you think me prettier than she 

is ?” 

“A thousand times prettier. My darling child, what an 
absurd question! She is not fit to be named in the same day 
with vou.” 

“ Ah, now I shall say good-bye really, my dearest Davy,” says 
Miss Hamilton, with considerable empressement , tendering to 
him both her friendly little hands, that return undisguisedly his 
farewell pressure. 

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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


21 


Mrs. Blount of the Grange is a very clever woman — not only 
clever, but sensible, two things that don’t always go together— 
and is devoted to iler step-brother, Captain Stann us, 

The captain is handsome and susceptible; Miss Hamilton, .ac- 
cording to Mrs. Blount’s lights, is handsome and susceptible also. 
Why should not two handsome, susceptible people be brought 
together, and by a little judicious management be united in heart 
and fortune ? I think when Mrs. Blount got to this point in her 
meditations, she put the fortune before the heart, as being the- 
more important thing of the two. Miss Hamilton’s fortune is. 
considerable — almost as pretty as herself: the captain’s is incon- 
siderable, being, indeed, of the Mrs. Harris order, vague and 
shadowy. Beyond all doubt, Georgie would make a very suit- 
able wife for dear Fred. 

Nothing can exceed Mrs. Blount’s kindness. She gives the- 
little mistress of the Elms to understand that the Grange is her 
home whenever she may wish to visit it. She is positively un- 
happy if a whole day passes without bringing her a .glimpse of 
darling Georgie. The county (especially the mothers of nice 
young men) admires her conduct immensely, and tells her with 
a smile how very charming it is of her to be so attentive to the 
little orphaned girl. It says a few other things, too — behind her 
back, and without a smile; but these, of course, she does not 
hear. 

Fred at first proves somewhat refractory, being rather averse 
to matrimony, even with an heiress, and openly disinclined to 
“ range ” himself for years to come. But when a fortnight has 
drawn to a close, he discovers, to his everlasting chagrin, that 
his heart is no longer in his own possession, but safe in Miss 
Georgie’s keeping. Against his will he has fallen a victim to 
the charms of the pretty heiress, and knows he would accept 
her gladly in the morning were she without a penny. 

About this time it occurs to Mrs. Blount’s fruitful brain that 
it is better to bring matters to a crisis without further delay. 
She takes into consideration the effect of private theatricals 
upon a budding attachment, and mentally decides that the fre- 
quent rehearsal of a love-scene must be conducive to the desired 
result. 

So private theatricals are arranged to take place at the Grange- 
on the 3d of August, and every one for ten miles around is in- 
vited to witness them. Georgie, of course, is to act; so is Stan- 
nus; so is Florence, the eldest daughter: so is Dynecourt; but lie, 
unfortunately, has business that will keep him in London a good 
deal just at this time, so is not available, and some one else is 
selected for his part. He will return to the county, however, 
the day before the all-important event, and will gladly stay at 
the Grange from Monday till Wednesday, Tuesday being the day 
appointed for the performance. 

On Monday, when Dynecourt arrives, he finds chaos reigning 
and nobody to be found anywhere. Strolling through the rooms 
in search of Georgie (being filled with a desire to see her riante 
face light up as he gives hnr the costly trinket he has selected 
for her with such loving care in town), he comes to the door of 


- - — 








THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


23 


one of the smaller conservatories, across which a heavy velvet 
curtain is hanging, and, lifting it partially, looks in. As he 
looks, his grasp involuntarily tightens upon the velvet, and his 
face whitens until his very lips are bloodless. Spellbound, as 
though rooted to the spot, he gazes at the scene within. 

In the center of the stone floor stands Georgie, looking very 
lovely, very earnest, with her blue eyes full of tender longing, 
while at her feet kneels the gallant captain, evidently pleading 
passionately for the small hand he is holding so closely, fondly, 
between both his own. His face is tragic — perhaps a degree too 
tragic, if only rage and despair would allow Dynecourt to notice 
it. But the lover-like attitude is as nothing to what follows. 
At this luckless instant the captain speaks, addressing Georgie 
in a tone almost frenzied in its vehemence. 

“Darling,” says the captain, “ for the last time I kneel to 
you, and entreat you to hear me. Do not, I pray you, let the 
adulation of another” (“ That’s me,” says Dynecourt, savagely, 
between his set teeth) “ blind you to the honest and heart-felt 
affection I offer you. In you are centered all my hopes of bliss. 
Do not condemn me to life-long misery, but say you will be 
mine.” 

Dynecourt draws his breath hard, and awaits with maddening 
impatience for the reply to this florid speech. It comes slowly, 
with evidently modest reluctance, from Georgie’s pretty lips. 
Her head is downcast; her hand lies tranquilly in her com- 
panion’s; she has turned her face a little to one side. 

“ How can I answer you ?” she says, in clear but trembling 
accents. “ And yet why should I shrink from telling you the 
truth ? Yes, I confess ft:, my heart has long been in your keep- 
ing, and, if you wish it, I am yours.” 

Dropping the curtain, with a smothered and rather highly 
flavored word, Dynecourt turns away, grief and bitter disap- 
pointment at his heart. At last the dreadful awakening has 
come; she has discovered her heart is not her own to bestow or 
withhold at her pleasure. She is right, of course— quite right. 
Her love is not to be controlled as she thinks fit; but why had 
she not told him ? To find such a child so skillful in the art of 
concealing chills him to his heart’s core: and he had believed 
her so true, so sweet, so unworldly! With apparently the face 
of a guileless girl she has proved herself old in the wiles and de- 
ceptions of the practiced flirt. 

Then a moment comes when he tells himself he is glad of his 
awakening, and pictures to himself the desolation of a life spent 
with one who would bear for him no love. But, somehow, it is 
a dismal gladness, that brings with it no consolation. 

Later on in the day, when they meet, his manner, though 
civil, is markedly cold and indifferent, while his demeanor to- 
ward Miss Blount, whom he takes in to dinner, is devoted, 
almost prononce. He takes not the smallest notice of the 
pretty puzzled child, who watches him with great bewildered 
eyes and tells herself a thousand times she must be dream- 
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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


25 


body else, and still Dynecourt is so attentive to Miss Blount that 
he barely notices the small, soft hand that is held out to him as 
its owner bids him good-night in somewhat troubled tones. So 
the cold farewell is said, and all separate: and two people at 
least in the house lie awake half the night through very wretch- 
edness, and one cries bitterly until her richly-fringed lids are 
pink and sorrowful. 

Next morning it is the same thing over again. At breakfast, 
Dynecourt is seated next Florence, and is carrying on with her 
an animated discussion about toy terriers. He barely notices 
Georgie’s greeting, and then goes back to the terrier question, 
as though the success of his argument is all he lives for. 

It is half -past eight; the guests have arrived, and Dynecourt 
in his side seat is gazing moodily into space, hardly aware that 
the curtain has risen and that the play has commenced. 

There is the usual programme. Beauty; Beauty’s true and 
disinterested admirer; true and disinterested admirer’s villain- 
ous rival; the smart chambermaid; the funny man — all are 
here. 

Dynecourt, glowering in his corner, declines to laugh at the 
funny man, and hardly deigns to notice the brilliant costumes 
that go such a long way in private theatricals. 

Two scenes go on successfully, and the curtain at length rises 
on the third and last. It progresses; Beauty is being tenderly 
driven into a corner; the true and disinterested is gaining 
ground, until finally, with an energy worthy of even a better 
cause, he flings himself at Beaut} T ’s feet, and for the fourth time 
entreats her to look favorably upon his suit. 

At this moment it occurs to Dynecourt, whose eyes are fixed 
upon the ground, that something not altogether unfamilar to 
his ear is being said. He starts, grows a little pale, and turns 
his attention to the stage. Captain Stannus is on his knees, and 
has full possession of Georgie’s hand. He is uttering an im- 
passioned speech, the words of which fall clearly upon Dyne- 
court’s ear. 

“ Do not, I pray you, let the adulation of another blind you to 
the honest and heartfelt affection I offer you ” 

It is all only too palpable. Dynecourt gazes at the actors 
blankly, full of a horrible misgiving. Then comes Beauty's 
reply. * 

Georgie is perhaps not quite so well up in her part to-night as 
she was yesterday, when in the conservatory she rehearsed to 
an unseen audience. Her tone falters; her eyes are unsmiling, a 
curious expression of pain has fallen athwart, and somewhat 
mars, the joyousness of her usually piquante face. For one 
brief instant her glance wanders, and, traveling over the heads_ 
of the listening guests, meets and questions Dynecourt. There 
is a world of disappointment and reproach in that tender glance, 
and then the long lashes droop, and the eyes return again to the 
suppliant before her. 

Remorse, self-reproach, keen anger at his own folly, threaten 
to overwhelm Dynecourt, and would perhaps gain mastery but 
for the extreme feeling of relief that grows within him and per- 



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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


27 


meates his whole being. He scarcely sees how the play ends, 
but as the curtain falls pushes his way triumphantly through 
the throng of applauders, and, crossing the hall, enters the im- 
promptu greenroom, where actors and actresses are all talking 
and laughing and congratulating each other freely on the hap- 
piness of the whole affair. But the little figure so charming in 
its old-world finery has disappeared. Georgie is nowhere to be 
seen. 

Florence Blount, resplendent in powder and patches, comes 
sailing toward him. She is of the large and fleshy type, and 
looks uncommonly well in powder — a fact of which she is fully 
aware. 

“Have you come to say something pretty to us?” she says, 
with her orthodox smile. “ It is scarcely form — is it ? — to force 
an entree into our private room; but we forgive you. Oh, 
Georgie? Yes, how well she acted, but how painfully nervous 
she was just at last! Did you notice? She was hardly off the 
stage when she burst out crying, and said she felt tired and 
frightened. Poor little thing! She has gone to her room ; Katie 
is with her, I fancy.” 

“ Ah,” says Dynecourt. If his life depended upon it, he could 
not at this moment form a sentence. His eyes are lowered, his 
tone might mean anything. 

“ Don’t you think you like old-fashioned plays?” goes on Miss 
Blount, vivaciously. “ The dressing and that is so much more 
effective.” 

Dynecourt murmurs something. 

“Oh, thanks, ever so many, but I am quite tired of hearing 
that. Yes, powder is becoming. I wish some great lady would 
adopt it for common use, and then we should all follow suit; 
and as for the patches, I really think I shall take to them without 
waiting for a lead from any great lady. Georgie? No, I am 
almost sure she will not come down again to-night. You see, 
she is so upset, nervous, what you will, ” etc. 

Dynecourt, disappointed, impatient, turns away, and, after a 
decent delay, frames a proper excuse and quits the house. He 
is conscience-stricken, and yet at heart more glad, more hope- 
ful, than he has ever been in all his life before. 

******* 

It is evening, but very early evening; as yet upon its borders, 
the baby Night sits crouching, not daring to advance. All the 
earth is still; not a murmur, not a whisper from the distant 
ocean, that lies sweetly sleeping in the bay, comes to disturb 
the calm and tender silence of the dying day. 

Suddenly upon the great quiet a little angry bark falls noisily, 
then another and another, and all Mr. Dynecourt’s merry ter- 
riers, flinging themselves against the entrance gate of the Elms, 
burst it open, and with one accord rush up the graveled path. 
Their master follows them slowly, hesitatingly, with a palpably 
guilty air. 

The little dogs run on before, Charley scampering well in front 
and barking vigorously, as is his wont. Coming to a certain 
corner, half hidden in the dusky shadows, they pause, and with 


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THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 


29 


a sniff of recognition they bound toward it, where a slender 
figure upon a rustic seat reclines somewhat sadly. 

The young man sees her too, and advances with singular 
reluctance. How well she receives his apologies, this pretty, 
passionate, ill-used child ? His heart beats with considerable 
rapidity, as the small figure rises, and, coming quietly from out 
the gloom, holds out to him a cold, unfriendly hand. 

“ Good-evening,” she says, icily. Her eyelids are suspiciously 
red, her head is bent. 

“ Good-evening,” replies he, nervously, and then speech for- 
sakes him and her. and silence, short but eloquent, follows. At 
length he breaks it. “I only came for a minute or two to ask 
how you are after Tuesday night’s fatigue,” he says, uncomfort- 
ably, and rather disjointedly. 

“How kind of you!” — in a tone that strikes cold upon his 
heart. “ I am only pretty well, thank you. My head has 
itched horribly all day. It has got into my eyes, the pain, and 
made me wretched.” 

“ So I can see,” returns he, gently, gazing with tender solici- 
tude upon the telltale lids. “ Have you done nothing for it?” 

“ Everything, but nothing has done me good ”, — with a faint 
touch of pettishness. 

“ Try eau-de-cologne,” says he, more because he can think of 
nothing else to say than from any strong belief in Johann 
Maria Farina. 

“I have none; I used the last drop I possessed yesterday.” 

“Let me go home for some” — eagerly; “Isha’n‘t be a mo- 
ment. and ” 

“ Nor for worlds!" — with unpleasant emphasis; “ I would not 
£ive you so much trouble for anything. Do not go; I shall not 
use it if you do.” 

“ Oh, if you will not,” returns he, piqued, flushing darkly, 
“ of course I shall not do what is unpleasant to you. Well, I 
shall not detain you longer: good-evening.” 

“ In such a hurry to reach the Grange ?” puts in she, quickly, 
childishly, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. 

“ I am not going to the Grange, Georgie. Why do you speak 
to me like this ?” 

“ I wonder I speak to you at all ” — petulantly. 

“ So do I” — haughtily; “talking always makes a bad head 
worse. Forgive me that I have kept you standing so long. 
Again good-evening.” 

“ Good-bye,” returned she, with suppressed meaning. 

“ Good-bye ? That is a dismissal,” says he, bitterly. 

He holds out his hand, and she places hers within it. The 
little fingers he clasps are dry and burning. He holds them 
<-loselv, silently watching her face, which she has studiously 
turned from his. “ At least accompany me to the gate,” he 
says, in a changed voice, out of which all the hauteur had van- 
ished, leaving only grief and regret behind it. 

She makes no reply, but with her face still averted and her 
hand still clasped in his, moves beside him down the walk to- 
ward the gate. 


Q azlay R rothers, 

MERCANTILE J OB P RINTERS, 

d<§7-d<§G)@yiffiaim. «gf., 

Telephone, 555 Nassau. I"£EW C/OI^I^. 


G'&erij i.e^en’ptior} of ^o€> printing 

— $- ^ afiJair pric,e<£>. 


fespipie^ k>y ^iail or® ^elep^orae 
v/ill twelve |®pom|®t att e nti°D. 


THAT LAST REHEARSAL. 31 

Just as they reach it a little sob smites upon his ear, and then 
he knows that she is crying. 

“ Georgie! Georgie! what is it?’’ exclaims he, in an agony, try- 
ing to meet her eyes; but with both her hands she has covered 
them very successfully. 

“ That horrible, odious, detestable Florence Blount!” she says 
presently; “ oh, how miserable she has made me! But of course 
it is no wonder you should like her best; she is so tall and hand- 
some, while /—I am only small and insignificant, and so — so 
young!” 

“ Georgie, let me ” 

“ I do not blame you. But why did you tell me a lie the other 
day, when you said you thought me prettier than she ?” 

“My darling! my angel!” says Mr. Dynecourt, taking her 
gently, gladly in his arms, “ how can you be so foolish? Don’t 
you know every bit of heart I have is yours. And as to com- 
paring you with that large, overgrown woman of the world, my 
beloved, I would not do you such a wrong.” 

“Then it isn’t true? you are sure? you are certain?” asks 
Georgie, visibly brightening. “ Then how could you go on as 
you did the other night, sitting near her, and talking to her, and 
looking into her eyes, and — and behaving so abominably in every 
way ?” 

“ Let me explain,” entreats the young man, in a contrite tone, 
and then he does explain, and tells her all about that fatal re- 
hearsal in the conservatory, and his despair and jealousy, and 
how he discovered his mistake and came up this evening to throw 
himself on her mercy, but was prevented by her coldness from 
making any explanation. 

“ Oh, how glad I am!” says Georgie, with a deep sigh of relief. 
And then she throws her arms around his neck in the fullness 
of her joy, and lays her soft curly head upon his chest. “ Per- 
haps all has happened for the best,” she whispers, “because 
until that Tuesday night I never really knew how much I loved 
you. But now I know.” 

“ How do you know, Georgie?” 

“ You remember all you said to me that day long ago about 
people who were in love. I didn't believe you then, but now I 
do. I know I should like to have you always near me ” — with a 
little shy laugh, and an adorable blush: “ and I should be dread- 
fully jealous if you liked anyone better than me; and” — the 
smile fading and tears coming into her eyes — “if you were to 
die I know I should die too, because I couldn’t live without 
you.” 

“ My own darling!” says Dynecourt, in a low, unsteady voice, 
straining her to his heart. 


[the end.] 


THE WONDER CURE OF THE 19th CENTURY t 


ITS EFFECTS ARZ MACiCAL! 


-5-CURES* 

CATARRH, 

NEURALGIA, 

HEADACHE, 

COLDS, 

ASTHMA, 

HAY FEVER. 



•^RESTORES* 

EYESIGHT 

AND 

HEARING. 


OUR BATTERY 

CURES DEAFNESS 


AFTER ALL OTHER REMEDIES FAIL . 


ACTINA Co., 88 Fifth Ave., N. Y. 473 Henry St., Brooklyn, N. Y., Dec. 3d, 1886. 

(■ entlemen :— In reply to your inquiry, I will say that I am pleased to state 
that, y ur Battery has CURED MY DAUGHTER OF DEAFNESS AFTER ALL 
OTHER REMEDIES FAILED. Please send me another C. O. D. 

GEO. RIGBY. 


During the past years thousands of cases of Catarrh, 
Neuralgia, Headache, have been cured by our Battery; 
Cataracts have been removed by its use without surgical 
operation. We are sole owners and proprietors of U. S. 
Letters Patent covering our Battery. 

BEWARE OF IMITATION BY WHATEVER NAME. 

Our ELECTRICAL and MEDICAL Departments are now under the direct 
supervision of Dr. A. W. JACKSON, Medical Electrician. All nervous 
diseases successfully treated. Send for testimonials, or call and 
receive one treatment f n ee. 

Original and only ACTINA CO. 

SS nZF’TiEa: ^T7*E., 2ST. “5T. 


A SOVEREIGN REMEDY FOR COLDS. 


We are now prepared to furnish our 

LATEST IMPROVED BATTERY, 

Patkntkd, October, 1886. 

LB D ’ll 


£. B. DURKEE & CO’S 




SPICES & MUSTARD 

SOLD ONLY IN FULL-WEIGHT SEALIP PACKAGES. 

Guaranteed absolutely pure. Some manufacturers use the word pure as a 
decoy. Consumers would do well to remember that an article may be pure, but 
lack other essential qualities. Our Select Spices are warranted uuiform iu quality, 
and to excel all others in strength, richness, flavor and cleanliness. 

SALAD DRESSING 

AND 

COLD SATJCD. 

THE ORIGINAL AND ONLY GENUINE. 

WITHOUT A RIVAL AS A DRESSING FOR ALL SALADS, AND AS 
A SAUCE FOR COLD MEATS, ETC. 

It is prepared with extreme care; all its ingredients are of the purest and best, 
and will keep good for years. 

We warn consumers against all mixtures put up in imitation of our style of package. 


CHALLENGE SAUCE, 

Tor ROAST BEEF, CHOPS, SOUPS, GRAVIES, FISH, Etc. 

A STKICTLF FIRST-CLASS TABLE SAUCE. 

Pleases the taste; promotes digestion; stimulates ike appetite. 

Connoisseurs have pronounced it the only really good America:: 
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CELERY SALT. 

Stronger in Flavor than the Plant itself. Put up 
in Attractive Style. For Table Use. 





THESE GOODS ARE SOLD EY ALL DEALERS //V FINE GROCERIES, AND 
ARE WARRANTED TO GIVE FULL SATISFACTION. 


THE CELEBRATED 

SOHMER 


r % c 


Grand, Square and Upright Pianos. 

FIRST PRIZE 


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Centennial Exhibi- 
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1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
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do. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
nerits of their in- 
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They are used 
in C o n s e rvato- 
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The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
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leading musicians 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

kUD PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14tli Street, N. Y. 


A IVON DEB FUL IN VENT ION ! 

The Royal Argand Cas Burner 

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CALL AND SEE IT. 

NEW YORK BRASS COMPANY, 

1 STREET, 

P Doors from Broadway. NEW YORK. 

Sample sent free, by mail, on receipt of price. 







































































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